


speak to me in words (look at me with feeling)

by inkelle



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pierre POV, Second person POV, anatole is soft but that's only because it's pierre, danatole mention, gratuitous and gentle kissing, helenya mention also, jealous pierre, pierre the cuckold sits at home press f to pay respects, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15522978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkelle/pseuds/inkelle
Summary: Well? Don’t you have nothing but your dying heart to lose?





	speak to me in words (look at me with feeling)

**Author's Note:**

> just fyi i edited the ending a couple days after posting bc it was a lil TOO sweet.. have some uhh.... doubt n angst n torment in true great comet fashion

Intoxicated, overwrought, slouched over in your armchair with a book on the floor and a glass in your hand. It’s a new night; it’s the same as all the other nights.

You see a figure out of the corner of your eye, know who it is even before the dark blurry shape moves into view. His straight back, his fluid step. Cat-like, he slinks toward you.

He says your name. The clarity of his voice is so unexpected in the sad quiet study. 

—or no, not the clarity. Not even the pitch. It’s the earnestness, that uncommon, unsettling sincerity.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, immediately alert. (As alert as you can be on three shots of vodka and your evening whiskey.)

He blinks. “That’s what I came to ask you.”

With that same distinctive ease of motion, he takes a seat on the edge of your foostool. He is, as always, unapologetically aware of his own handsomeness—sitting tall, legs crossed, right ankle over left knee. It might lend him a slightly self-conscious air, but this, too, is ultimately to his benefit: All the hard lines of his posture offset by boyish charm.

“I’m fine,” you say, and mean it. The alcohol has clouded all the ugly for the time being.

“Petya, _mon cher_.” He reaches forward and places his hand on your knee, blinking up at you from beneath pale lashes. You’re amazed at how entirely his usual facetiousness has fallen to the wayside. “Are you sure?”

Your breath hitches in your throat at his touch, just a little. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

He shrugs, his hand falling away to fold with its partner in his lap. “My sister has been saying some cruel things, of late. Quite uncivilized even for her. And I know she does not shy from making you aware of her... grievances.”

You snort, sip at your nearly empty glass. “If that’s what we're calling them.”

“You shouldn't just sit and take it, old friend. I love her, I do, but she really ought to be challenged once in a while—”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that why you do it so often?”

He huffs. “I just don’t like to hear her speaking so ill of you...”

“It's nothing new,” you point out, bemused. Perhaps he is here to taunt you after all, and you’ve merely been too drunk notice. “You’ve never given a damn before.”

Anatole hasn’t been meeting your eye, choosing instead to stare past you at the first row of bookshelves. At your words, though, his upset gaze flickers to you. “That’s not true,” he says.

He means to upkeep the facade. The dedication is almost admirable. But this is one of the those hideous unspoken things about your relationship which, despite both your best efforts, is not actually forever avoidable. 

You hold his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” he says softly, and God, with that tone, you might actually believe him.

Sighing, sitting up a little straighter, you hold out your glass with a nod toward the desk.

He stands and reaches past you for the whiskey. For just a moment, he is a little too close; for just a moment, you hold your breath. He takes a swig of the bottle before filling your glass.

“So what’s changed, Kuragin?” He bristles at you as he sits back down, unamused by the use of his surname. “What exactly has she said to make you so concerned about my constitution?”

His glare morphs into a grimace, exquisite features marred instantly with shame. “It’s all very… she’s crass, Pierre, you know her.”

This, from Anatole? “I know you, too,” you mutter.

“I don’t,” Anatole exclaims, “I am not—”

“An adulterer?” you suggest. Your chest is suddenly on fire. You look at the floor, at the rug, at his black shining boots.

“Now, listen—”

This has been building up, you think dizzily. It has been building up ever since the day he arrived with that appalling, incredible arrogance and Fedya on his arm.

You want—you don’t know what you want, but you are sure it’s impossible to have. You can feel the anger rising up to your throat to throttle you.

“A whore?” you press.

“Pierre,” he warns.

You lift your eyes to meet his and lay down your ace with a thin smile. Quietly. Mockingly. Knowing it’s true. “Dolokhov’s bitch?”

Silence. 

His fury is cold, palpable. Still he sits so primly.

You watch him, drinking, waiting.

Finally: “She said you probably like it.”

“Like what?” You frown. Too much vodka.

“The thought of her,” he says, “with him.”

Sometimes—often—you grieve. Not anything in particular, just—life. Just your life, in all its gross turns of fate.

“She believes I _enjoy_ being a—a cuckold?” you say, disgusted with the word and with yourself.

“Declared it to the whole club,” he says, “Out of her mind on champagne.”

“Champagne.” It’s an insane thing to latch onto, considering the circumstances. You sound so much calmer than you feel. “What were you celebrating?”

He shrugs. “Them.”

“Them,” you repeat.

“It’s their anniversary.”

Blinking away tears, you turn your face from Anatole. You wish you wept solely for your reputation.

“Pierre,” he says.

You push away his outstretched hand. “Don’t,” you say shakily. “You’re on her side, you’ve always—why do you now pretend to care for me?”

“Pierre, you are—” He lets out a small, aggravated sigh. “For all your stupid habits—”

“Says you.”

“Will you just listen to me? I care because you are _kind_ , Pierre, too kind, and furthermore you are much too smart to be putting up with my sister’s imprudence. I am not on her side unconditionally; I know you deserve better—”

“Is that so? And what of your own spouse?”

“That marriage was _forced_ onto me,” says Anatole heatedly, “like Hélène was forced onto you, and you know it. Do not act like I am in this position willfully.”

Around the rim of your glass, against all sense, you mutter, “But you get into position with Fedya willfully—”

“Will you stop with that nonsense?” cries Anatole. “Yes, I do! Clearly I do! And what is it to you?”

“He’s using you,” you say.

“What, just because he’s a man, you think he might have—what? Tricked me into it? I happen to _like_ sleeping with men, entirely of my own volition—”

“That’s not it,” you say. “I don’t care about that.”

“Then _what_ —”

“I simply—isn’t his family in poverty?”

Anatole stares at you. “Yes. So?”

“He needs the friends—the money—the influence—”

"That is absolutely not the case—”

It’s your turn to ask, spitefully, “Are you sure?”

Incensed, he demands, “I know you are too clever to believe he has any power over my sister. Why should it be different for me?”

Because you’re _you_ , you want to say. Because you’re Anatole and you could have anybody and you chose him when you could have chosen—

Sometimes, often, you grieve.

“It is easier to tell myself he needs you,” you murmur, twisting to set your glass on the desk so you don’t have to look at him, “Rather than the other way around.”

You really are a fool, you think, as you are graced with silence once again. You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for the scrape of the stool against the floor and the fading click of his boots in the hall; or even worse, for the laughter, the high ringing sweetness of his amusement—it would be _justified,_ that’s the worst part; it would be understandable.

And then: “Is _that_ what all this is about?”

You open first one eye, then the other. “…yes?”

“Oh, Pierre.” He _is_ amused, you see it in the glint in his eye, but it is equally, shockingly affectionate—and he takes your hands in his, squeezing once, twice.

You stare down in disbelief, at your large, unseemly hands under his elegant manicured fingers. 

“Anatole,” you manage.

“I can’t believe you’re jealous of Fedya, of all people. He’s my _friend_ , Pierre; my best friend, yes, but nothing more.”

You swallow. “Well, I—he’s very handsome.”

“So are you.”

You scoff, on impulse trying to pull your hands away. Anatole holds fast. Your pulse, already impossibly quick, speeds up until your head is pounding. “Yes,” you choke out, face burning, “and just as adventurous—”

“I’m serious.”

He _is_ , you know he is, and that’s somehow more terrifying to you than the alternative.

“Petya,” he says, and it is only now that the nickname strikes you for what it is.

You meet his gaze and the tenderness you find there is almost unbearable.

He smiles. Your heart aches, as the stomach does when it has been filled after being too long deprived of food.

“May I kiss you?”

_“May_ you—” you splutter. “Are you _joking—”_

“Is that a yes?”

_“Yes_ ,” you say, and he surges forward, pressing his lips to yours—soft, warm, heart-stopping.

When he pulls back, forehead still touching yours, he is laughing under his breath.

“What?” you ask, too dazed to be annoyed.

“Hélène doesn’t know what she’s missing, that’s all.”

You catch his mouth in yours again, insistent on tasting that laughter for yourself, finally releasing his hands only to place them firmly on his narrow waist. He wriggles happily under your touch, wraps his arms around your neck; you wish suddenly, desperately, that you could keep him here embraced in the moonlight forever.

He pulls away for a moment, kisses your forehead, your nose. You whine, chase his lips only to have him turn his cheek to you. _“Anatole—”_

But then he shifts, throwing one leg over your hip and then the other until he is straddling your lap, and yes—this is better. This is much better.

He peeks over your shoulder as you dip your hands beneath his shirt. “Have you ever put this desk to real use, _mon cher?”_

“What do you m—oh,” you say. “Oh.”

“ _Oh,_ indeed.” He grins at you wickedly. 

“I’m still drunk,” you say, though the implications of his words have you more lightheaded than the alcohol.

“So? You want to, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, “more than anything. But I’m not… with the drink… I’m not young anymore, Tolya.”

“Oh,” he says again, clearly disappointed.

“I’m sorry.” _Please don’t leave._ “Another time?” _Please._

He pouts. “Tomorrow?"

You let out a sigh of relief, laughing breathlessly, tightening your grip at his waist. “Yes, okay. Tomorrow.”

“Hurrah,” he says, and smothers you with another kiss. Against your mouth, he murmurs, “Maybe I am a bit of a whore.”

_“Maybe?”_

He hits your shoulder and nips at your lower lip in the same breath. “As if you’re complaining!”

“I’m not,” you admit. “Forgive me?”

“Hmm.” Hands still clasped around your neck, he tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed as if considering your plea. 

You lean forward and press a kiss to his jaw, his bared throat, the space between his collarbones. He gasps, the same hand which abused your shoulder now latching onto your sleeve for support.

“Yes, but only if you keep that up tomorrow.”

Not entirely joking, you prod, “Am I only good for the sex, _mon coeur?”_

His raises a knee to jab your ribs, then sucks in a breath as you latch onto the honeyed juncture between his neck and shoulder with intent to bruise. “Don’t— _mm_. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You lick at the wound. And again: “Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty, not shallow.” And then he tilts your face up to his so you can see the glimmer of warmth in his blue eyes. “All right, Pierre?”

Like this—his whole body on you, around you, his gaze so soft, the mark of your teeth still denting his skin—you can barely think, and your mouth moves before you have the chance to stop it. “You’re not pretty.”

“Well, now you’re just being mean—”

“You’re beautiful. You’re an angel, Tolya, _moy krasiva.”_

He flushes at the tips of his ears and the base of his neck simultaneously, and you watch in awe as the blood rushes to meet radiant pink across his cheeks.

“You shouldn't say such things of me,” he whispers.

“And why not?”

“You might start to believe it.”

Your heart aches. “Anatole...”

“I’m no angel, Pierre. You know that as well as anyone. Promise you won’t start thinking more of me just because of—this—”

Wounded, you ask, “What is this, then?”

“Don’t—I can’t possibly answer that now.”

You press your face into his shoulder, unwilling still to let him see you cry.

“Pierre,” he pleads, clutching you tighter, “I don’t mean to be cruel—”

“You are,” you say, words muffled in his vest, “You and her always are.”

“Pierre.”

You look up. Your vision is blurry and he seems almost to glow, radiant, insensible. Once you blink, you see he wears a pained expression.

“I don’t want to hurt you like she has,” he says.

“Then don’t,” you say. He smiles sadly, like an adult at a child who understands nothing yet of the world outside their nursery, and it irritates you.

You remind yourself that Anatole has always been irritating. This relationship may have suddenly turned on its head, but the world itself has not.

Maybe, for once, he’s right.

“I can’t promise you anything. On principle, I never promise anything.” He runs his fingers through your curls, nails scraping gently at your scalp. “But I think you're brilliant, Pierre,” he says gently, “I do. I adore you. And that’s why I’m telling you now—for your own sake—do not say such things of me.”

“We shouldn’t do this,” you murmur, as you start to move your hands from his waist. He grabs ahold of your wrists with surprising strength.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Pierre, _please_. You overthink everything, you're overthinking right now—please.” He lets your hands go as if _knowing_ they will settle back into place at his sides.

“Let’s just exist,” he says softly. “Just exist with me, Pierre, for a moment.”

You stare into his eyes, at the deep well of blue and the hope there. He makes a point. Not once in your life have you leapt toward what you really want—always only crawled, placing every limb down carefully, planning for your future as if ruin is imminent.

Here is exactly what you want, warm and heavy in your lap, saying he adores you. And as his wonderful soft hands run yearningly across your shoulders, your arms, your chest, you think, oh—ruin might be imminent, but even fire as it swallows a city is beautiful.

Well? Don’t you have nothing but your dying heart to lose?

“All right,” you say weakly. “All right.”

He smiles. Kisses your cheek, almost chaste.

“Will Elena be home tonight?”

“You’re more likely to know the answer to that than I am.”

“I was just wondering,” he says, “if Monsieur Bezukhov, being the gentleman that he is, would take this very tired prince to bed.”

You frown. “I told you, I can’t—”

“Just sleep with me?” he asks, voice small, such a contrast to the memory of his firm grip on your wrists. “I mean, really sleep? I can’t possibly go back to my own cold bed after this.”

You feel your face warm at the thought. It’s risky—if one of the servants or Hélène shows up, it will be almost impossible to explain—but it feels a small risk to take now, after everything.

“Okay,” you say. He makes a pleased noise and begins to stand, but before he has released you completely you tuck your arm beneath his knees and lift him off the ground, standing with him in your arms in one fluid motion.

As he throws his arms around your neck you hear him draw the faintest of breaths—quick—divine.

“And if we’re seen?” he asks.

“I’ll tell them you’re drunk.”

“Not the furthest from the truth,” he reflects as you exit the library. “You kiss very well, monsieur.”

“ _Sycophante,”_ you accuse.

“Old man,” he retorts, an insult and endearment both, and so familiar that the uneasy tide in your chest stills for one brief moment. Despite everything, you find youself smiling.

“You’re incorrigible,” you say.

“You’re lovely,” he replies, and kisses the corner of your mouth as if to reiterate the point.

Whatever happens now, you think, you _hope_ , will be worth it.

He presses his lips to your neck, tenderly, earnestly—

Oh, with all your aching heart, you hope.

**Author's Note:**

> more love for this ship please.... imo anatole is so much softer with pierre than with anyone else and aaa... my heart.. i love them and i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it


End file.
